She’d quit alcohol for three years and knew she could handle a drink again now and then. She always stopped at Jogi’s, the little store that kept its beer colder than the others on her route home. Tipping the beer back and pouring it into her mouth relaxed her from a hard day of teaching these crazy public-school kids. She was glad to get on with the city school system; the commute to Dutchess Academy had become a grind. When she left work now, the noise of the kids’ excited shouts and her shrill gym whistle faded from her ears; the iced liquid soothed the raspy feeling in her throat after a day of yelling instructions. The act of chugging right out on the street felt like bursting the bonds of bureaucracy that tightly taped every muscle in her body. The first can would be empty when she got upstairs, and she’d stick the second in the freezer while she changed her clothes. Ginger taught afternoons and evenings, so Jefferson’s time was her own. This was when she’d pay her bills, clean the counters, correct hygiene-class papers—whatever needed doing—while she downed the second beer.
